I hold my breath, but Bomini’s only concern is locating the jar of maraschino cherries, which he finds easily. When he leaves, he shuts the pantry door tightly and everything goes black.
“We need two,” somebody else yells, and just as suddenly the pantry door swings open again. Now we see the whole array of servers waiting to carry food. None of them look like convicts, dressed as they are in white cook’s uniforms or black dinner jackets like the waitstaff of a fancy restaurant. Something is making my nose itch. Dust or maybe it’s the smell of garlic. The urge to cough tickles the back of my mouth. I grind my teeth, catching the cough in the cage of my throat. I swallow it down just as Bomini’s hands find the cherries and grab the jar. He’s in a rush and doesn’t really look. This time he leaves the door wide open.
“Number 85 you’re on. This is your moment!” Officer Trixle’s voice belts out. Piper squeezes my hand and for a second it seems nice to be standing so close to her as we strain to spot Capone in the bustle of waiters. He looks dapper in the black and white waiter outfit, though his starched shirt pulls across his belly. His dark black hair curls slightly around his ear as if the barber missed a strand. I can see his scar as he gathers up the plates.
“One at a time,” Trixle orders. “Let’s do this up good.”
“The warden first?” somebody asks.
“Hoover first. Then Ness. Why not carry those two together,” Officer Bomini suggests.
It’s then that we see him full on-almost as if he’s coming toward us. He spins, and there is his jagged scar in perfect line sight of our dark pantry. Quick as a flash he hawks up a good bit of phlegm and aims it straight for the potatoes on one plate, then the other. Smoothly, as if he’s done this a hundred times before, he switches both plates to one hand and with his index finger swirls over the top of the mashed potatoes with a finishing twist.
“Got a problem, 85?” Associate Warden Chudley asks.
“No problem, sir. Just getting a good hold,” Capone reports as he balances one plate on the flat of each palm and carries them out with the confidence of a man who has been waiting tables his whole life.
“C’mon,” Piper whispers, tugging my hand.
Back we go down the stairwell as quietly as we can to the deserted first-floor bowling alley. I head for the door. Piper pulls me the other way.
“Twenty minutes, remember?” I whisper.
“It hasn’t been that long.”
“It has.”
“We’ve got to see this,” Piper insists.
“No.” Everything inside me rises up. I won’t let Piper manipulate me this way. “No,” I say.
“We can’t argue here.” She yanks me past the single bowling lanes, the bag of boxing gloves, the pool cues, and up to the open front stairwell.
“Piper.” I pull my arm back. “I said no.”
“You don’t understand how much this means to me,” she whispers. “My life is over. This is all I have.” I can’t tell if this is real or a performance, but either way I’m in trouble.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I tell her.
“It’s true. You don’t know.” She grabs my wrist so tightly she gives me a rope burn. “Come… with… me or I’ll scream right here.”
I stand my ground.
She takes a big breath. The scream starts low like a whisper-
“Wait,” I tell her.
We stare at each other, just inches apart but from different sides of the universe.
“Okay, all right,” I concede. What else can I do?
The main stairs are strangely quiet, like the movie theater aisle once the movie begins. At the top, she pulls us into the large formal coat closet that is full now with everyone’s best coats. My stomach clenches when I see Mrs. Bomini’s sweater with a needlepoint flower sewn on, Bea Trixle’s beaver-collared jacket, and my mother’s best white coat.
No, I won’t be caught here. I spin around, but when I look back at Piper she has her mouth wide open in a silent scream and I follow her obediently again. I can’t stand how Piper manipulates me, and I would never do this if I wasn’t being forced, but I have to admit there’s a certain thrill to being here too.
This closet is where the post office used to be when Alcatraz was an army post. Under the coats are mail slots that give us a glittering view of the whole Officers’ Club clear across to the tall windows that look out on the black water and the sparkling lights of Berkeley in the distance.
The room is set up to look like a fancy restaurant with short starched white tablecloths over black floor-length cloths. Each table is set with crystal wineglasses, water glasses, dessert and bread plates, plus three forks and three spoons for each person. Warden Williams is seated right next to J. Edgar Hoover. Hoover is a mean-looking man with busy eyebrows. On the warden’s other side is a young dark-haired man with a smooth face and hair parted in the middle. That’s got to be Ness.
My mom and dad, Bea and Darby Trixle, and the Chudleys are also at this table. “Where’s your mom?” I suddenly ask, realizing there is no seat for Mrs. Williams.
“Shhh,” Piper warns.
Everyone is talking in breathy, animated party voices. Though I can’t hear what they’re saying, I can see from their gestures that they are all cozying up to Hoover and Ness. Bea Trixle, her hair platinum blond today, the exact color of Mae Capone’s, is watching Hoover. Even my dad is nodding to Ness as if he’s just said something incredibly clever.
“Capone will serve Ness first. You’ll see,” Piper whispers.
Capone walks slowly but purposefully, as if he’s testing out new shoes. His face is the picture of submission as he follows Officer Trixle. His hand twitches for a second in front of Ness and I wonder if he’ll turn over the dinner plate and grind it into Ness ’s hair, but he does not. He smoothes out the tablecloth and puts down the plate with a flourish. Capone does it up; everything short of a curtsy. Then he stands at attention, his heels clicked together, watching Eliot Ness dig his fork into the spit-filled mashed potatoes.
The warden smiles his approval. His prize pig has shown well.
“Okay, we saw it. Let’s get out of here,” I whisper.
Piper doesn’t move. “The show’s not over,” she says.
“You said you wanted to see Capone. You saw him. Let’s go.”
“No,” Piper insists as Officer Trixle escorts Capone back into the kitchen and Willy One Arm appears at the head table, holding a wine bottle with a white bib tied around it. He fills each glass, finishing with a showy twist. All of which he does despite the fact that he’s missing one arm and his black jacket sleeve hangs down empty, flapping as he moves.
Willy catches Officer Trixle’s eye. Trixle nods. Willy One Arm’s good hand tosses something invisible over his shoulder as he follows Trixle into the kitchen.
“That’s salt,” Piper whispers. “He throws it over his shoulder after everything he does.”
“Why?”
“For luck. He forgot to do it the night he lost his arm.”
Trixle’s lips are twitching as if there’s a laugh he can’t quite contain. He goes to the front podium and calls the room to attention by clinking a wineglass. “Excuse me, but we seem to have found a wallet.” He opens the wallet with a flourish and takes the license out. “Says here: J. Edgar Hoover.”
Hoover isn’t paying attention. He’s absorbed in a whispered conversation with my father.
“Lose something, Mr. Hoover?” Warden Williams asks, leaning toward J. Edgar, not a trace of humor on his face.
“Pardon me?” Hoover says.
“I said, missing something?” the warden asks.
Hoover pats at his vest, his suit coat, his trousers pockets. His dark eyebrows slide together.
Willy One Arm returns with an empty tray. Officer Trixle sweeps a folded napkin through the air and places it carefully on the tray. Then he sets the wallet right in the center and Willy One Arm scurries over to J. Edgar Hoover, whose mouth is even more dour than it was before. Hoover snatches his wallet back, checks the contents, and slips it into his vest pocket in one swift motion like a rodent who has found his cheese.